


The Difference a Day Makes

by GwendolynGrace



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (mostly), Canon Compliant, Junior year, M/M, Missing Scene, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-12 05:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15989006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: An expanded scene from Year 3 #10 and a missing scene between  #10 and #11. Originally posted to Tumblr as two flash fics. Bitty calls and calls Jack; Jack gives Shitty a heads-up before the Team Brunch the next morning.





	1. The Night Before

He cuts himself off mid-message, pressing the icon to “end call” as if his life depends on it. Which it probably does. How long ago did Jack’s plane take off? How bad is the weather over Denver, or Des Moines, and will the rain make it difficult to land down in Providence? He calls, gets Jack’s voicemail. Calls again. Again. He listens to Jack’s best, professional voice saying that if you have this number, you’re either a friend or a teammate, so if it’s the former, chirp away, and if it’s the latter, see you on the ice later, Tater. Ha-ha. He ends the call again.

The stain from the berries is crusting up on his shirt-tails, but he can’t be bothered to care. All that matters now is catching Jack as soon as he can turn on his phone again. Everything–Bitty’s whole future–may hinge on catching Jack before he has a chance to pick up that message. He knows it’s pointless but he tries again. Again.

He should change. He should brush his teeth. It’s super-late already, and he’s got class in the morning. But if Jack hears that message, classes won’t mean a thing to him, and who will care if his teeth rot out of his mouth if there’s no Jack to kiss, because he’ll hear the message and of course he’ll feel pressured by it. That’s not what Bitty wants. He redials.

Two hours later, his eyelids are drooping. He sits on his bed, clutching Señor Bun in one hand, his phone in the other. He forces himself to count to 300 between calls, but he may have drowsed there for a minute, so should he be at 240 or…? He hits the redial again.

“Bittle?” It’s Jack. Jack, already full of concern. “Hey, bud. Is everything all right?”

‘Oh, God,’ thinks Bitty. ‘Is it too late?’ But he plows forward. If Jack had listened, he wouldn’t be asking if he’s okay. “Honey, I just left a silly voicemail on your phone,” he says, trying to sound carefree and nonchalant. “Please don’t listen to it. Delete it.” He hopes Jack will think it’s just a crank call, but something in his voice must not have sounded as upbeat as he usually is. Jack’s concern rises, rather than recedes.

“Wait, what? Bits, what’s wrong?”

“Jack, I….” He attempts once more to brighten his tone–but it’s just no use. “Can we talk?” he asks.

Jack’s answer only takes a beat. “I…I just got in my car, but of course. Of course we can talk. Hang on, let me start her up.” He hears the engine turn over, and a moment later Jack’s back on the line. “Tell me what’s wrong, Bits.”

“I–nothing. Not really. Only…” his voice really does crack now, as he chokes out, “I dropped a pie! I spilled it all over the kitchen and–” and now he’s sobbing incoherently.

“Bitty!” Jack gasps. “Hey, it’s okay. Tu sera bien, cher, just breathe. What happened?”

Bitty tumbles through the sequence, how Shitty and Nursey were talking and he lost his concentration. 

“If you were anyone else, I’d tell you it’s just a pie. But I have a feeling you’d dump me if I dared insult the world’s greatest food,” Jack says. “Besides…it’s not just a pie, is it?”

Bitty sniffs, his tears more under control now. Jack’s gentle teasing even elicits a weak smile. “Well, no, I’d never–never dump you, sweetheart. And–no. It’s not just a pie. It’s…everything.”

“Like what? Just keep talking to me, bud.”

That leads to a recounting of all the other tiny disappointments and stresses of the past weeks, this week especially, and– “I don’t know…. I just–I feel so alone with all this. I mean, I know the boys suspect and I know they’d want to help, but–they really can’t, can they? There’s nothing to be done.” He pauses. “See, this is why I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You’re not a bother,” Jack assures him quickly.

“But it is what it is, like Coach would say.” And really, it is. “It’s okay, honey, really. I’ll be all right. I guess I just needed to…you know, vent a little.”

“Where are you?” Jack asks suddenly. “At the Haus?”

“Mm-hmm… Everyone’s still downstairs. I’m sure Shitty’ll rush up and check on me as soon as they mop up that pie….”

He’s not even sure how they get there, but suddenly, he’s yelling at Jack not to give up his life, and Jack’s shouting to him that he shouldn’t suffer, and they both fall silent. Bitty backs off, knowing he pushed too hard. “I never wanted this to be another thing you had to worry about,” he says apologetically. Because he knows just how many things Jack worries about on a daily basis, and God knows he didn’t want to be anywhere on the list. He continues voicing reassurances–we’ll get through this, it was just a hard week– “I have to be stronger.”

“Bittle.” Jack’s voice has an edge. It’s his Captain voice–the one that Bitty now only hears when Jack’s cajoling him to study, or go to sleep, or take care of himself. The one he now recognizes means Jack’s taking care of him. “No. You don’t.” 

He takes a deep breath and lets it out in a ragged, steadying sigh. “It’s really, really late, Jack. Is it raining down there?”

“It’s… not bad,” Jack says, as unconvincing as Bitty’s earlier protests. “But–”

“Liar, I can hear the rain on your roof. I should let you drive, then. Don’t want you running off the road or anything, hahaha! Look, I’ll–call you tomorrow, or, today, I mean? After class? Maybe we can fit in a weekend somewhere and…that’ll be good.”

“Bits–”

“I’ll let you go,” Bitty says quickly. “I’m sorry I unloaded on you, honey. Really. Have a safe drive.” He ends the call before Jack can say any more. Before he can start crying again. 

He decides not to brush his teeth, because that would mean going across the hall, and he doesn’t want to risk any of the guys seeing him when he’s still half a wreck. He takes off the stained clothes and slips on his shorts. Then, carefully, he lifts up his Zimmerman t-shirt from its resting place under his pillow. After running his finger thoughtfully over the number 1 on the back, he throws it over his head, punches his arms through the sleeves, and plunges under his covers. He’s not sure he’ll be able to sleep at all, but he’s so tired that despite his racing mind, it only takes moments to sink into darkness, with the rain spattering the window and Señor Bun clutched against his neck.


	2. The Morning After

By around 7:30 AM, the storm of last night has blown out to the Atlantic. The sun still hits this side of the Haus early, just like it did in Jack’s old room. He stirs.

Jack pulls himself away from the warm circle of Bitty’s arms (because he might be a Southern boy, and small, but crisse he’s a human radiator). He finds the shirt that Bittle had kept, weeks ago, and tests the dryness of his trousers. They’re still damp. He pads across the hallway to Lardo’s room and knocks quietly. Just as he expected, it’s Shitty, and not Lards, who answers the door.

“Jack!” Shitty yells too loudly, and then, realizing the hour, repeats it in a stage whisper. “Jack mother-fucking Zimmerman, what the fuck–?”

“Shh. Shitty, listen, I need pants.”

“What?”

“I need a pair of pants. Did you bring any extra?”

Shitty regards him shrewdly for a moment. To his credit, he doesn’t ask why the fuck Jack is standing in the Haus hallway in just a shirt, nor does he even bother to chirp him about the implications of stepping out in his shorts only. “Maybe Holster’s got some that’ll stretch down the length of those pistons you call legs,” Shitty says instead. He ventures up to the attic, still quiet in deference to the sleeping Hausmates. 

A few seconds later, Shitty returns with an old pair of SMH sweatpants. “Here.” Jack makes a grunt of gratitude and shoves his legs through, pulls the waistband up as high as it goes. 

“Okay, explain,” Shitty says, and lord, Jack can hear the courtroom oration tactics he’s been studying. 

“I came up last night to…to see Bittle,” Jack says. “He called me, and…” he clears his throat. This is unexpectedly difficult, even with Shitty. But Bitty needs the support, so he forces himself to continue. “We, uh, we’ve been… Since graduation.” He prays Shitty can fill in the blanks himself.

Shitty’s eyes widen. “Oh my fucking God,” he hisses. “Fucking shit on a–but, Camilla! And…and…” He runs a hand over the flow that’s been steadily growing out for months now. “Fuck me with a rusty duck,” he concludes. “Jesus, Jack. Remember when Marksy, Keester, Janey Brandt, and Carole McGinnis all came out to me in the same week? Why the hell didn’t you think you could tell me?”

“J’en sais,” Jack says with a shrug. “I just…had enough going on already, eh?”

“Did Johnson know?”

He shrugs again. “Probably. You know what he’s like. He’d probably just say something like, ‘Dating Camilla, Kate, and Samantha was a classic case of narrative misdirection,’ eh?”

“Yeah, whatever that means,” Shitty frowns. “So. You and Bitty. Really?”

“Yes.” Jack holds his gaze, waiting for approval or condemnation, and he’s not sure which he’s more prepared to hear. 

“Wow. Well, I shoulda known something was going on there. I’m sorry, man, I really am. I’ve been a crappy friend.”

“No, you haven’t. I just–you know.”

“Yeah. NHL career can’t be easy and then to be the first out player in the league?”

“Right.” Jack puts his hands on his hips. “But now…Bitty’s having a hard time of it–we both are, if I’m honest–and I want him–us–to be able to share this with at least some of our friends.”

“Who else are you going to tell? I mean…shit, Jack, you drove up here in the middle of the night. In the middle of a fucking Nor’easter.”

“Well…we haven’t talked about it yet. But. I wanted to tell you, myself.” He punches Shitty lightly in one shoulder. “I’m going back in Bitty’s room, now, but once we figure it out, I’m thinking Jerry’s for brunch.” Dimly he remembers an optional skate today, but he’ll call and say he’s opting out.

“Cool. Sounds good.” Shitty stares, still a little wide-eyed, his bare feet making the floor boards creak as he bounces a tiny bit. 

“So. You and Lardo, eh?” Jack says with a wink.

“Oh, shut the fuck up. Go wake up your boyfriend.” They share a chuckle and duck back into their partners’ rooms.

Lardo mutters sleepily as Shitty climbs back under the covers. “Wazzat?” she asks and flips over to press into his neck.

“That was me being a heteronormative asshole,” Shitty answers.

“Huh?”

“Nothing. I think I’m just channeling my inner Johnson.”

Lardo giggles. “Well, c’mere, and why don’t you channel your outer one….”

His last thought before eagerly complying is to hope that across the hall, Jack and Bitty are half as pleasantly occupied.


End file.
